The Lesson
by Turrislucidus
Summary: On a day special to him, Willy Wonka takes his first flying lesson. A one-shot penned on the occasion of Mr. Roald Dahl's 100th birthday, who, like Mr. Wonka, was also a proud pilot.


_Before Roald Dahl became a writer, he was a fighter pilot for the RAF, seeing combat during World War II. Flying was something he loved, but for health reasons, had to give up. After Willy Wonka became a candy maker, he skirmished in the Great Glass Elevator, with the Verminous Knids. Before that, he must have taken a flying lesson or two. That being the case, I thought, on the occasion of Mr. Dahl's one-hundredth birthday, a story about Willy Wonka's first flying lesson might be appropriate._

* * *

The day was clear; the morning still. That made it a day good for this, or so he'd read. Scanning the sky, and seeing only blue, Willy tucked his Rudge-Whitworth bicycle beneath a sprawling vine that threatened to take over the wall of the modest brick building to which it clung. A huge hanger, its doors telescoped open, sat adjacent. Nearby, the glass door that gave access to the office beckoned. This adventure would be only a sideline, Willy knew that, but it would be a sideline that would earn him a skill that would come in handy for tracking down exotic flavors from all over the world. That made it worth it. Now if he could only get through this world: dealing with strangers, in close quarters; quarters as close as a cockpit. Resigning himself, Willy squared his shoulders, and entered the unknown.

Inside was quiet; so far, so good. The receptionist sat at a desk to his left. Butted up against it, a display case full of flight paraphernalia stretched away. To his right was a partitioning wall that halved the room, and made an area for desks on its other side. Willy could see a desk, with no one at it, through the spacious opening.

"Can I help you?" asked the woman, looking up from some paperwork. Her tone was noncommittal.

Willy was ready for this. "I'd like to take flying lessons, please."

The woman snapped her gum, and reached into a drawer. She pulled out some papers, and put them on the counter. Wannabes like this one came in here all the time. College age, thinking they had the 'right stuff'. They'd no stuff: not the time, nor the money, nor the inclination. Learning to fly was no piece of cake. It took work.

"This explains our programs," she said, gesturing at the papers. "Read 'em over. You start with the private pilot course. If you have any questions, ask me."

Ignored—the women had gone back to her scratchings—Willy walked over to the papers. She'd put them atop a huge scheduling calendar, one page per day, arranged in a grid: time of day down the left side, aircraft numbers on top. Instructor names were penciled in over the arrows marking the squares of time the planes were spoken for. Lifting the papers, Willy could see some blanks on the schedule for today. He glanced at the sheets. One was a list of requirements. No interest in that. The requirement today was to have a lesson. The second sheet listed the rates. No interest in those either. _Nerds_ were nifty, and the conglomerate marketing them was doing a nifty job. A lyric buzzed in his head: ' _And the money kept rolling in…'_

"I'd like to take flying lessons," said Willy, dropping the pages.

With the ghost of a smile this time, the woman looked up from her work.

"No complaints about the price?"

Willy shook his head.

The woman was up from her desk, beaming. "Then you need a flight instructor. Follow me."

Willy didn't follow her; it was gonna take her awhile to get around that display case and get back to him, and it was obvious where they were going. He side-stepped over to the instructor area, and surveyed it. Six desks: one by the window; four in two rows of two; one on the back wall. All as plain as the nose on your face, except…

"Let's see, I think it's Greg's turn." The woman was at his side. "Greg, this is—"

"I want that one." Willy pointed to the desk at the back.

Hearing the first words, Greg had lowered the book he was reading, pivoting in his boring office chair. Hearing the next words, he as quickly pivoted back. Easy come, easy go, Greg always said, his gander at the offering telling him it was just as well.

The instructor at the desk at the back snapped down the top half of the newspaper he was reading. The executive office chair he sat in looked as comfortable as the wing-backed chair that sat next to his personal desk, a desk unlike the others. Hastily folding the fold the other way, he tossed the distraction onto the leather sofa behind him. It landed on the cushion beneath the framed print of Pablo Picasso's _Don Quixote_. Peering over the wire rims of his glasses at the pale, spare young man at the other end of the room, his gnarled hand indicated the wing-backed chair.

"Come hither, my man, and let's get started," he said, with a wry smile for his fellow employees. With the one in his book, and the other trekking to her desk, neither cared.

"My name is Hank. You can tell me yours, if you think that will make this easier, and when you have, you can tell me the story of your life, leaving out everything except why you want to learn how to fly."

Willy smiled at the assumption that given the choice, he'd say his name. In this case, he would. "My name is Willy. Because it will keep me off the streets." There was no reason to sit. The airplanes were outside.

Hank leant back in his chair. "That it will. Any other reason?"

Holding a gloved index finger to his chin, Willy cocked his head. Was there a witticism requirement to fulfill, before one got down to business? "Because like life, flying has its ups and downs?"

Hank pondered. It was hard to know what was going on behind the dark glasses with this lad, but he seemed mentally alert, and able to roll with the punches. Aviation required that. The boy was conservatively dressed, his dark hair shorter than was fashionable, but except for the gloves and glasses, which strangely suited him, his appearance seemed a put-on, as if underneath it all there was someone entirely different lurking. Different was welcome. Hank decided to take him on.

"When did you want to start?"

"Today, please. Right now."

Hank rose. "Come with me, and learn the secrets of the schedule."

They walked to the calendar so lately left.

"Peggy, this is Willy. Willy, this is Peggy. Peggy is going to take all of your money, starting with one thousand dollars, right now, the down payment on your ticket to the skies. You can pay less up front, but anything less than a thousand doesn't get you the discount. Peggy can also schedule/cancel lessons for you over the phone, and see that you get the plane you like. Be nice to Peggy. Willy?"

Willy reached into a pocket of his jacket, and brought out a slim, leather, porte-monnaie, from which he counted out the requested cash. Smiles all around, as the cash changed hands.

"Which plane would you like?"

Hank was holding a pencil, ready to mark out the hour and a half they would need on whichever plane's slot. It was quiet on Wednesday mornings, and they had their pick.

"The one you'd like," answered Willy.

Hank and Peggy nodded to each other. They liked this one.

"We'll take this one. It's a Cherokee. Hither, my man! Lots to explain."

* * *

Settled in the plane, the normal spiel was a non-starter. Hank's explanation was interrupted by his new pupil's 'what's this?' and 'what's that?' and 'what does this do?' and 'what do you mean, I have to talk on the radio?'

In the end, Hank let Willy have it his way: Willy's zeal was too sincere to resist, and like a child discovering a new world, one component at a time, it saved time to answer Willy's questions as they came to him. In less time than you'd think, they were taxiing to the runway, and then flying down the centerline, Willy at the controls, the aircraft lifting off, and truly flying.

Taking off was easy; trimmed properly, with enough speed the plane would do it by itself, and most people could steer a straight line for the amount of time necessary for that to happen. With the aircraft's dual sets of controls allowing Hank to intervene at any time, Willy piloting that first maneuver was nothing special. It was a confidence builder, and Hank had everyone he taught do it. Safely at altitude, Hank took over. He showed Willy the interconnections between pitch, power, ailerons, and rudder, and then, with Willy demonstrating some understanding of his now three-axis world, Hank bid Willy do whatever Willy might like to with the plane. He did this with every student he had; it told him volumes about the student's personality, without him having to ask.

"Really," said Willy. "Ya mean it? Anything?"

Hank felt a reservation. "Don't hit the ground, and don't go faster than that mark on the airspeed indicator."

Willy giggled, and turned the airplane onto its left wing, which is to say, when he finished turning the yoke, the tip of the left wing pointed straight at the ground. Unable to maintain altitude in this position, with this trim setting, the aircraft dropped. Willy laughed. As they headed towards the earth, Willy brought the down wing up. Now they were straight, in a dive. The airspeed increased, and so did Willy's joy, the ground rushing up, the air rushing by.

"Pulling up would be handy here," called out Hank, over the noise of the slipstream. "If you don't, I will. It takes awhile for the plane to respond, and altitude continues to decrease until it does. Between you and me, we're about out of it."

Willy pulled up, the sensation pushing him deeply into his seat. The airplane climbed, and the airspeed decreased. They were back to where they started.

Turning to Hank, Willy smiled with a flash of brilliant white teeth. "Does it do anything else?"

"All kinds of things. Would you like to see?"

Willy nodded like a bobble-head. For the next half-hour they did steep turns, chandelles, lazy eights, and even a stall or two. Willy tried a few, and even got off a passable chandelle.

"Yank, bank, reverse."

Willy laughed, and did what he was told. His favorite was a sharp level-off from climb, that gave one the sensation of floating.

"Gravitational forces, and how to be weightless," grinned Hank.

"Weightless is better than witless," laughed back Willy.

* * *

The lesson ended too early, but end it must. Hank made the landing, while Willy watched. As closely as he was observed, Hank felt he might have been a mouse, observed by an owl. It was a little creepy, but Hank had no doubt that Willy was out of the ordinary. Most folks, given the choice, opted for gentle changes, keeping the plane as steady as they could.

Parked on the ramp once more, Willy sat in the plane, reluctant to leave it. He appeared to be cataloging every component in his head, as if he thought he'd never see them again.

"One lesson, does not a pilot make," said Hank, opening the door at his side. "Even with an aptitude like yours. Care to schedule more lessons?"

"You can do it. Same time, every day this week, and every week after until I have my license," answered Willy, his hand on the yoke, feeling the pull of a climbing left turn. His right hand was on the throttle, adding the needed power.

"I'll see who's available," said Hank, stepping onto the wing.

"No!" said Willy, whipping his torso right, and leaning towards the door. "You!"

"Then remove yourself from this plane, so the next student can have it, and come in and schedule. I don't work every day, and other students have already scheduled my time. We'll work around that."

"Heh." Willy's laugh was sheepish, as if he'd forgotten his manners, and maybe he had. But he knew that he would do this: learn to fly, and learn to fly well. Waiting for Hank to get off the wing, and give him some room, a nicety it took Hank a minute or two to figure out, Willy decamped from the plane. Landing on the tarmac, he patted the side of the fuselage.

"Thank you, plane. That was fun."

Observing, Hank cocked his head. This young man was an odd duck, with his skin-tight gloves, and overly large square glasses, and not-quite-right clothes, but he had the makings of a helluva stick. Today had been more fun for Hank, than Hank had had in many a moon, and he relished the thrill. Anything undertaken with passion was thrilling.

"Um, Willy, may I ask you a personal question?"

Willy forgot the cold aluminum of the Cherokee and remembered his new instructor.

"If I don't have to answer it to keep taking lessons."

"What's your last name?"

Willy grinned. A most impersonal personal question. "Wonka."

The name meant nothing to Hank. "Why'd you pick today to come out to the airport to sign up?"

"Heh." That was the real question Hank was hankering to ask. Willy's eyes found the ground, but he decided to answer. "To make a figment of my imagination a reality. I'm getting good at that."

"A figment of your imagination?"

"I have so many figments in my imagination, they spill out, and become real," Willy said. Ha! Maybe that's true for others. Behind his glasses, Willy's eyes were twinkling, alive with his latest thought. His tone became mischievous. "Maybe I, and you, and everyone, are the figments of someone _else's_ imagination, that spilled out, and became real."

Frowning, Hank shook his head.

Willy, noting the dubious reaction, sighed. The man was forgetting his _Don Quixote._ "Meh. It might be so. Anyway, the figment I want to make real today is learning to fly. I've wanted to since I first flew in a plane. It's only now that I've acquired the means to do it."

Hank pondered the earnestness, but saw the hole. "That's the what and the how. But you're dodging the why. Why today? Nothing else to do?"

Willy giggled at _that_ supposition. With all he was trying to learn, he had no time for anything; only the things he _made_ time for.

"By starting today, I make the day an anniversary for me, too."

Confusion clouded the old guy's face, and Willy relented.

"Today is September 13th, a day special to me, as it is the birthday of a person special to me. I thought on this day, I'd give myself a gift; a gift that loving flying themselves, this person would want me to have. My creator is gone now, but I thought in this way, I'd honor their memory."

His creator? Was he talking about a parent? Both parents? The phrasing was peculiar, but the thought was not, and Hank, in the midst of musings he'd rather not more deeply encroach on, chose to latch onto that.

"Then, happy birthday to… your creator," he said, starting the walk to the office.

"Yes," said Willy, contentedly falling into step. "Happy Birthday."

* * *

 _I do not own the character Willy Wonka. The lyrics quoted are from the "Evita" song, "And the Money Kept Rolling In (And Out)"._


End file.
